Cross Roads (12 page)

C
harles Martin skirted the dining room and made his way to the formal living room and the one-of-a-kind ageless bookshelves that a master craftsman had built long before Charles was even a twinkle in his mother's eye. He stood still for a few seconds to admire the carved roses that ran down the side of the cases. He counted down and pressed the center of the correct rose. He waited patiently for the humongous shelf to silently glide inward. He still marveled, even to this day, that the authorities had never found the catacombs and his and the vigilantes' war room, from which they had conducted business for so long.

Charles descended the long flight of stone steps, whose risers were covered with moss. In the beginning, they had made concerted efforts to get rid of the moss, all to no avail. Myra finally said to leave it; it belonged to this place and the long-ago time when her ancestors had participated in the Underground Railroad.

Eons ago, his and Myra's daughter Barbara and Nikki Quinn, their adopted daughter, had played down here. He and Myra had strung bells every few feet to make sure the girls never got lost. Somehow or other, they never did. He smiled at the memory. He touched one of the clusters now and was rewarded with a sound so pure, so melodious, it was hard to fathom how that could still be after all these years. Another one of those little mysteries in life that would probably go unanswered until the end of time.

Charles opened the door to the huge climate-controlled room and switched on every light. There were so many memories here. He swallowed hard as he looked at the round oak table and the chairs so neatly placed. He blinked as he recalled the seating arrangement. Julia was gone now, their only casualty. He closed his eyes and offered up a prayer for the repose of her soul. He knew for a fact that the girls did the same thing whenever they entered the room. He knew this because Myra had told him.

What had started out as a small group—the Sisterhood or the vigilantes, depending on who was describing them—had been small. Now their numbers, out of necessity, had increased, all to the better, in their fight to right injustice and save those they could. They'd operated in this fortress for longer than he cared to remember. There were good days, bad days, good times, and some not so good times, but the Sisterhood had prevailed.

Charles pulled out Myra's chair and sat down. His legs were wobbly, his eyes burning. For the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. The girls were expecting him to perform a miracle. He knew his limitations, and the problem now facing him and the Sisters was so far above his pay grade that he wanted to bellow to the gods to help him. After all, he was just a mortal. Yes, he was skilled in covert espionage, yes, he had people at his disposal, and yes, he had unlimited financial reserves to draw on, but what he didn't have was the ability to stop a midair hijacking.

Charles's thoughts were scattered, but he always came back to the same spot, which was that the hijacking was a hoax. Why had Jack Emery called Harry Wong instead of him? In his dark thoughts, it didn't compute. Unless…Harry was number one on Jack's speed dial. Or he'd misdialed. Then again, maybe it was a clue of some sort, and he wasn't getting it. Obviously, Harry hadn't gotten it, either.

Who would want to hijack Bert, Jack, Nikki, and Kathryn? Who? And why would they be hijacked in the first place? Who and why? Well, he was never going to figure it out if he kept sitting here with his dark thoughts. When he felt certain that his legs would hold him upright, Charles got to his feet, settled Myra's chair back in place, then climbed the three steps that would take him to the wall covered with computers. He flipped a switch, and bells and whistles sounded. It was comforting.
This
he understood.
This
he could deal with. Because it was his world, a world he understood. He closed his eyes, shifted mental gears, and went to work, his fingers tapping coded messages at what seemed like the speed of light.

Almost instantly, encrypted messages were returned. There were more bells and whistles, more buzzing and papers flying out of the fax machine. When his sat phone chirped, Charles reached for it like a lifeline. “Snowden here, Sir Malcolm.”

“Let's dispense with the formalities, Avery. I'm Charles Martin. Sir Malcolm belongs to that long-ago world we all left behind us. Now, tell me your thoughts.”

“It's only been minutes, Charles. I have the lads on it. I'm going to need at least an hour before I can report anything concrete or nebulous, as the case may be. The only thing I can tell you with any certainty is that the plane does belong to HLJ Enterprises and it is headed to Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C. I have the best air-trackers in the world on it. They still have two hours of flight time to go. That's not to say they can't change course and land somewhere else, pleading mechanical problems. It takes time, Charles. The lads won't let us down, you know that.”

“It's not making any sense, Avery.”

“Of course it makes sense, Charles, you just don't want to accept the fact that your old buddy could suddenly be on the wrong end of things. That whole retirement thing and Jellicoe turning his global business over to people he barely knew never made sense to either one of us. I don't want to hear that old ditty that money is the most powerful motivator in the world, either. Hank Jellicoe isn't interested in money. He probably has almost as much money as Anna de Silva. No, I think it's safe to say it is something else entirely.”

“Hank went dark over a year and a half ago,” Charles said, using a covert term to indicate that Hank Jellicoe had disappeared. “When you go off the grid like that, it has to be something
BIG
. Especially for someone like Jellicoe.”

Snowden's voice turned testy when he said, “Well, Charles, nothing earth-shattering has happened in the last year and a half, so what you're saying isn't quite holding up in my eyes. If Jellicoe suddenly became an active player and went to ground, why hasn't there been any chatter that we've picked up on? I grant you the guy is good, but he isn't
that
good. We have people placed all over; someone would have kicked something to us by now. Have you given any thought to maybe this is all
personal
on his part? Maybe the man is sick. Have you given that a thought?”

“I know the man. In my opinion, it's not personal. He's not sick, either. Actually, he's probably in better health than both of us put together. He did admit to high cholesterol that's under control, along with fifty percent of the world's population, but that's it. He also told me he bought a million shares of Pfizer when Lipitor first came out, and he still owns every single share. Hank is all about God, country, and the American way. He'd give up his life if he thought it would help the country.”

“Okayyy,”
Snowden drawled. “How do you explain his very public engagement to the president of the United States on the night she handed out the pardons to your ladies? He gets engaged to the most visible, important person in the world, gives her a diamond ring big enough to be a headlight, then he goes off the grid? Not another word. Is he still engaged? Is he in contact with his fiancée? No one knows. Maybe the guy finally cracked. It happens, Charles. We've both seen it.”

“I can't explain it, but I have someone on it. What about the passenger list—how soon before you can get the names of the people on board?”

“Momentarily. A fiver will get you a ten spot that they're all John Smiths or Bill Joneses or something similar.”

“That's a sucker bet. No, thanks.” There was no point in saying it, but he said it anyway. “Get back to me the minute you know something.”

Charles looked across the room at the bank of clocks that gave the time all over the world. He tapped a few times on the computer and saw that the Gulfstream owned by HLJ Enterprises still had an hour and forty minutes of airtime until it landed at Dulles.
If
it landed there.

Charles let his mind wander as he contemplated how Jack and Bert would handle a hijacking. He knew Nikki and Kathryn were more than capable of taking on their hijackers given the chance. If he was a betting man, he'd put his money on the girls, but then Bert and Jack had gone to what Hank called his
boot camp,
where such things were taught around the clock, and either you washed out or you passed the course with flying colors, because Hank Jellicoe would accept nothing less. Which brought still another thought to mind. He tapped quickly and asked the question, Where do private Gulfstream owners get their hostesses? Are they private employees, or do they hire them from a central booking agency? He had his two-word answer within minutes: private employees. That had to mean they were on Jellicoe's payroll. A package deal of some kind. Men and women who were on call whenever the Gulfstream took to the air. They were probably well compensated to sit idly by waiting for the owner to decide that the plane needed to fly somewhere.

Now who would have a list of Jellicoe's employees? In a heartbeat, he had Ted Robinson on the line. “Do you have Jellicoe's roster of employees, Ted?”

“I do. Why do you ask?” Ted's voice sharpened as he waited for Charles's response.

“Under Global Securities, did you happen to come across the names of the airline hostesses he uses? Also the pilots. How many Gulfstreams does the mother company own? Can you get back to me as soon as possible on this?”

“How about right now? There are ten hostesses on the payroll. He has ten pilots and ten copilots. They have five Gulfstreams, three Blackhawk helicopters, and four regulation whirlybirds. They rotate on a weekly basis. I did a whole section on that for the news magazine Jellicoe wanted done. Twenty-four pages of glossy, good-looking men and women all duded up in spiffy uniforms. There was even a section devoted to the five-star gourmet meals served to clients.”

“I need names, Ted.”

“‘Thank you, Ted,'” Ted sniped. “They're on the way to you. Look at your computer. Anything else you want to pick my brain about?”

“Sorry, Ted,” Charles said contritely. “It's just that—”

“I know, I know. Good luck. Hey, I have the addresses and phone numbers of all those guys if you want them. I can download them, and you'll have them in minutes,” Ted volunteered.

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” Ted said.

Ted was as good as his word. Like magic, the names, addresses, and cell phone numbers appeared on Charles's computer screen. In the blink of an eye, they were on their way to Avery Snowden. Like any of Jellicoe's employees would willingly give up information on their savior. Still, Avery Snowden and his people had a way with reluctant people who clammed up.

Charles spent the next forty minutes perusing the incoming faxes and printed e-mails, his gaze going to the bank of clocks every few seconds. He was hyperaware of the fact Avery Snowden had not returned his call.

The thick bundle of papers in hand, Charles headed for the exit into the catacombs just as his sat phone rang. He listened carefully to what Snowden was telling him.

“Aside from your four people, there are six passengers aboard the Gulfstream, not five. The sixth passenger has no name. Pierre Laroux, Ambrose Fallon, Mitchell Blakely, Fergus Duffy, and Ari Gold.”

Charles sucked in his breath and let it out with a loud swoosh. He had to struggle to make his tongue work. “The Sûreté, MI5, Interpol, Scotland Yard, and Mossad. It's not a hijacking, Avery, it's an intervention. They don't want Jack and Bert, they want Nikki and Kathryn. That plane will land on time at Dulles, those men will disappear, and I'll wager that our sixth man is Henry Lawrence Jellicoe himself. I want…”

“I have people on the way. You want to know where the five go, how they get spirited out, then you want your people taken to the farm. How am I doing so far, Charles?”

“Splendidly.”

“Guess that's why you pay me the big bucks, eh?”

When Charles closed his sat phone, he was back to being wobbly in the legs, and he was definitely having trouble breathing. He sat down on the stone steps as relief flooded through his body. So much to think about. Now that he knew the
who,
all he had to do was figure out the
why
of it all. He reached out and gave the string of bells at the foot of the stone steps a gentle tap. He closed his eyes at the clear purity of the sound before he got up and made his way to the main part of the old farmhouse. At least now he wouldn't be reporting dire things to the people waiting to hear what he'd come up with.

“W
ho were you calling, Mr. Emery?” a squat fire hydrant of a balding man asked cheerfully. “Never mind, I can figure it out myself.”

Jack watched as the fire hydrant peered down at the device in his hand, then frowned as he pressed button after button with no readout forthcoming.

“Knock yourself out,” Jack snarled.

“Trust me, I will. By the way, just for the record, this plane is not being hijacked, as you so erroneously reported to your mystery caller. Actually, my colleagues here and I have gone out of our way to accommodate you and see that you arrive safely back in your homeland. Reporting a hijacking that is not taking place could earn you some serious prison time, Mr. Emery. It's a federal offense in your country, I understand, to report a hijacking if there is no hijacking going on. That's assuming you care.” The fire hydrant waved his arms expansively. “As I said, we accommodated you in the short window of time for a tenth of what it would have cost you to fly even privately on another charter or commercially. We served you a fine gourmet meal, champagne, and excellent coffee along with quality after-dinner mints. We have the latest movies on board, the latest newspapers and magazines to make your trip as enjoyable as possible. Why, we even allowed Ms. Lucas's dog on board. I call that hospitality at its finest.

“I came forward to invite Miss Quinn, oh, excuse me, Mrs. Emery, and Ms. Lucas to join me and the others in the back for a…little chat.”

“Why?” Bert demanded.

“NTK, Mr. Navarro. So, ladies, are you agreeable to joining me and my companions for a little chat? Our hostess has prepared fresh coffee, and we have some excellent hundred-year-old brandy to give it a little kick.”

Nikki looked at Kathryn, who simply shrugged.

“Wait a minute. Why aren't Bert and I included in your
little chat
?” Jack demanded.

“Because it isn't necessary, and we do not require your input. At this time. Let me stress again, you are not being hijacked. In a little less than two hours, this plane will set down at Dulles Airport, you will disembark, go through Customs, and be on your way. Hopefully, you will consider this just a fond memory and thank us for getting you safely to your homeland. If not…oh, well. Oh, one other thing. Don't do something stupid like trying to insist on joining us.”

The fire hydrant stepped back as Nikki and Kathryn rose to their feet. He waved them forward.

“Is that guy who I think he is?” Jack hissed to Bert.

“If you mean Ari Gold, second-in-command to the Israeli prime minister, then, yeah, you're right,” Bert said. “You want to make a little bet here, Jack, that we can figure out who those other guys are in the next few minutes?”

“I'm not really up on all that high-profile stuff, and I've never met any of those guys the way you have when you were the director of the FBI, but I think the tall, suave, good-looking guy is Pierre something or other from France.”

“Laroux,” Bert said.

“Laroux,” Jack repeated. “The one who looks like he has a broom up his butt is Ambrose Fallon, the stuffy-looking, bookish guy is Mitch Blakely, and the redheaded guy is Fergus Duffy. How am I doing, Bert?”

Bert sucked in his breath. “You got it nailed, Jack. The Sûreté, MI5, Interpol, Scotland Yard, and Mossad. All on the same plane. Now that had to take some doing.” His voice was so full of awe, Jack blinked, but he had to agree. Something
BIG
was going on here that he and Bert weren't going to be privy to. He felt insulted.

“A hell of a lot of doing, my friend. Then there is the guy behind the screen, the sixth guy. It's got to be Hank Jellicoe. I'd bet my life on it,” Jack said.

“But why?” Bert demanded.

“Obviously, it's not about you and me, that's for sure. It's about them,” Jack said, jerking his head in the direction of the round table in the back. “This is just a guess on my part, but I don't think it's just about Kathryn and Nikki, either. I think it's about the
vigilantes.
”

“Now that we know who our hosts are, why are we whispering? It's a given this plane is bugged from top to bottom. We're the dumb-asses here, Jack.”

“Nikki said from the git-go it was about the vigilantes, scattering them to the four corners of the globe. She was right, I see it now, but I have to admit, I was blinded back in the beginning. How naive we were to think it was about us and what we considered our capabilities.”

Bert chewed on his lower lip. “Jack, in the back of this plane are five, six if we're right, and it is Jellicoe, of the most powerful men in the world. The only person missing is the head of the CIA. Ask yourself why that is. It can't be because she's a woman, can it? What in the damn hell is going on? Why isn't the good old U. S. of A. represented here?”

“Beats the shit out of me, unless the four of us are the good old U. S. of A.'s contingent, and I find that hard to believe. I have a headache, Bert. This headache is going to turn into a nightmare any second now. I can feel it, smell it, taste it. Since the head of the CIA isn't on this plane, maybe it concerns her. Did you give that a thought?”

“Oh, yeah. It's just another
why.
But according to Gold, who seems to be the spokesperson for that posse back there, this was a spur-of-the-moment endeavor. These guys can apparently just pick up and go wherever they want, without any opposition. But so can the director of the CIA, I would guess. So, yeah, I think in some way the CIA is involved in this somehow, some way. What the hell are they talking about, anyway?” Bert said, craning his neck in the direction of the round table surrounded by people in the back of the plane. “Looks pretty intense to me, whatever it is.”

“Guess that sixth man is still hiding behind the screen. No movement there? I wish Harry were here. Between us, we could have taken those guys and been drinking champagne while we watched them struggle with whatever we would have tied them up with,” Jack said morosely.

“What? I'm chopped liver? Are you saying the two of us, with the girls' help, couldn't take out those guys?”

There was such outrage in Bert's voice, Jack winced. “Yeah, that's what I'm saying. We're good, Bert, don't get me wrong, but Harry…Harry is a horse of a whole other color.”

“You're probably right.” Bert's outrage was gone, replaced with acceptance of his abilities, which was that he was not a one-man army the way Harry Wong was.

“Whatever it is they're trying to sell to the girls, it seems to be a hard sell,” Jack said.

Bert snorted. “Kathryn will not bend an inch if she thinks she's right. I learned that the hard way.”

“Yeah, Nikki is like that, too. Hell, all the girls are like that, even Myra and Annie. Charles told me once he learned never to go up against Myra for the very same reason. I guess that's why the girls are like sisters. That's not a bad thing, Bert. At least I don't think it is.

“Listen, there's something else,” Jack said, lowering his voice to a whisper and speaking directly into Bert's ear. “Nikki has a hate on for Hank Jellicoe that has no equal. Before this is all over and done with, whatever the hell
this
is, the girls are going to pound that guy's ass so far into the ground, he will never see the light of day again.” Now that he was wound up, Jack continued, “Think about every ugly, hateful, vicious punishment those women have doled out over the years in their time as the vigilantes, then multiply that by about ten, and that's what that asshole Hank Jellicoe is looking at once they get their collective mitts on him. The best part is, the guy doesn't even know it's coming his way.”

He started to laugh and couldn't stop. When Bert finally digested all that Jack had said, he slapped his knees and doubled over, guffawing out loud.

In the back of the plane, the men seated at the table looked toward the front of the plane, startled expressions on their faces as Bert and Jack continued to laugh and pound each other on the back.

Nikki and Kathryn smiled expansively. The men's startled expressions turned decidedly uneasy as Scotland Yard's Fergus Duffy pressed a small button on his watch that would allow Jack's and Bert's words, before they were consumed with laughter, to play into their earbuds.

The expansive smile stayed on Nikki's face because she was almost certain she knew what Jack and Bert were discussing. “Tell us, gentlemen, what can my friend Kathryn and I do for you? I'd thank you for the accommodations, but we paid for them, so the point is moot. This appears to be your party, so let's get on with it.”

Kathryn leaned forward. “Not so fast, Nikki. Don't we want
all
our hosts seated here at the table for the party? A party isn't a party unless everyone is seated at the table. Anything less is rude, don't you think?”

Nikki feigned embarrassment. “You're right, Kathryn, silly me. Of course we want everyone present so there can be no ‘he said, she said,' later on.” She eyeballed the man who had introduced himself as Mitchell Blakely. Nikki's voice turned arctic. “Get him out here
now,
gentlemen, or this party just fizzled out.”

When nothing happened, Kathryn turned her chair around and stood up. She yawned elaborately, then said, “Party's over, Nikki.”

The elaborate, decorative screen Annie would have called tacky moved slightly, and a man stepped forward and took his seat close to the table. The others moved slightly to accommodate him.

“And you would be…?” Nikki said pleasantly.

The voice was gruff, a mixture of molasses and hard whiskey. “Whoever you want me to be. Names aren't important at thirty thousand feet.”

“As a disguise,” Kathryn said, “yours, Mr. Jellicoe, sucks. You look like a bad white imitation of a Bob Marley. Those dreadlocks are not becoming. And I see you've put on a little weight since we last met. What did you use to stain your skin?” Not bothering to wait for a response, she continued. “Probably walnut juice. I want it known right here and now that my partner and I, and of course the other…ah…vigilantes, hate your guts. Now would be a good time to say something before we rejoin our mates up front.

“You look surprised, Mr. Jellicoe, that we recognized you. We're experts on disguises, even with plastic surgery, or did you forget that? Latex is something else, isn't it? In the blink of an eye, latex can transform a person to someone totally different. Add in a bushel of deep, dark hatred, and what we have right here, in front of our very own eyes, is…
you,
” Kathryn said. “I think I can smell your chagrin from where I'm seated. Right now, Mr. Jellicoe, you look like a man who lost his mojo, and that is not a good thing. Oh, and none of us care if you can do the
New York Times
crossword puzzle
in ink
or not.”

Nikki watched the others seated at the table out of the corner of her eye. They, too, appeared stunned at Kathryn's denunciation of Hank Jellicoe. She knew exactly what the men were thinking—these women are as good as their reputation. She felt pleased with the thought. She glanced over at Kathryn, who was smiling from ear to ear. She felt a grin coming on that she couldn't stifle.

“Is something amusing, ladies?” Ambrose Fallon asked. Kathryn's smile grew wider at the jittery sound of the man's question. She almost out and out laughed when she saw a nervous tic in Hank Jellicoe's left eye.

“Well, yes, now that you ask, but you must allow us ladies our little secrets.” Kathryn's smile disappeared as did Nikki's ear-to-ear grin. Her voice returned to steel. “Let's get on with it. Why are you here, and what do you want from us? The short version will do.”

“We need your help. All of us here have tried for the past year and a half to get to the bottom of a very serious problem, and as much as we hate to admit it, we have…failed. Not only have we failed, we failed miserably,” Ari Gold said. Honesty and humiliation rang in his tortured voice. “In addition, by way of explaining our failure, we listened to Mr. Jellicoe because he said he could control you. By you, I mean the vigilantes. We know now that has not been the case.”

Kathryn and Nikki allowed themselves to chuckle over the man's humiliating admission.

“Let me get this straight, just so there is no confusion on our part. The Sûreté, MI5, Interpol, Scotland Yard, and Mossad have collectively failed in a united effort of some sort. Ooops, I forgot to mention the most prestigious organization of all, Global Securities, the premier security operation in the entire world, if you believe the man himself.” Nikki sniffed. “Personally, I never believed the man's press; he's too damn arrogant for my taste. That makes you all a bunch of fools. Don't you agree, Kathryn?”

“I absolutely do, Nikki. But then, what do I know? I'm just some dumb woman he wanted to get rid of. How do you feel about that, Nikki?”

“I don't like it one little bit. Okay, you're up, Jellicoe. Why are you here, and what is it you want from us? You had better make it good, because you only get one shot at an explanation.” Nikki looked at her watch. “If the pilot is right, we have about one hour of flight time left, so it behooves you to make this quick. If you want to confer among yourselves, Kathryn and I will rejoin our companions and return when you've come to a decision.”